Parson Thru II
By Parson Thru
Writing is a means of subverting my life.
2012 Outpourings. All works Copyright Kevin Buckle 2012
See me also at http://www.parsonthru.com/wordpress/
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God”
Diagnosed myself with grotesque tiredness and loss of interest. Wind blows the leaves endlessly outside. Conspiring whispers in billowing green. This is summer. Rain lashing,
Until early summer fully dresses the trees, from the windows of our flat I see the kind of sunsets that I used to dream of.
She stood in the kitchen ironing Dark hair neatly combed back Tumbling on gently squared shoulders
Stephan walked out of the room in his shorts as I stirred from my sleep on the bone-aching floor (updated)
I had a cat named 'Blue' rhymed with Kalamazoo Grey with stripes a tabby My mother hated cats a family thing One suffocated a child allegedly But he was only six weeks old A kitten
Welcome! to the Cirque d'Obscene where the ugly procure the unsightly and Romantics should never be seen
If only I wasn't so confused I'd give you a piece of my mind But I can't work all this out myself So to harangue would be unkind
From a distance I watch recall machinery modest men and the smell of honest work (WIP Jan 2012)
Falling Falling Passing nothing Touching nothing ever again but empty space and air Rushing, deafening air And the ground eight miles down And I know that I’m dying Legs running
Think I'm finally out of ink threw in everything but the kitchen sink (tempted to use everythink but unnatural as not from London and thought it might just cause a stink).
Above the mist, the grey-green ghosts of Polden elms stand silent over salted fields And somewhere overhead a heron cuts a dead straight path to shining ponds from ages past
Can't think of anything to say really. Except same shit, different day maybe. But then, someone I know saved a life today. Or nearly. She tried. But she tries every day.
Come in Kevin. Thank you, Christine. Could you bring two teas please? White no sugar, isn't it Kevin?
I suppose I have a dream of some sort. I carry it around from place to place like my own personal Star of Bethlehem.
Sitting on the sofa, dreaming, drinking tea. I’m 5 and perched on a wall in Rawcliffe. The summer street is alive with love, blue sky, brand new bright red bricks
What if I’ve had my day? …it’s finished? …I'm done? No more notes to play? …no other song to be sung? …my race is already run? Pure, empty …silence
The Wealthy have never been so rich screams the Sunday Telegraph from Monday’s stinking ditch
My mother reminds me that when I was very young I gave all my pocket-money to a man who'd been given an accordion instead of legs Forty years on I have to wonder why I still care
The Waxworks Politician - caricature Margston Thatchill - says Stop Moaning and Work Harder
I’d forgotten how much he said with his eyes. A man of few words. Happy to sit most of the time in his window seat, reading his paper or lost in contemplation.
Just friends, no more and if we pushed too hard it wouldn’t be the same we’d inflict pain and after sex we’d have our first row and everyone would know we’d gone too far somehow
There was no one left alive who could remember the devastating waves of disease that had brought humanity to its knees.
Heti Flaardvoorst walked briskly to the apartment door knowing that things were about to change in a way that she could not control.
Marthi Flaardvoorst stumbled along the narrow forest track between the two women, Hope nimbly leading.
Amy Orton was happy in her work. Painstaking clerical detail isn't everyone's thing, but Amy loved to absorb herself.
Blackened silver plate and matted bristles stare accusingly from foetid water in the shared recycling bin
Revisiting my past and searching for the person inside the shell. Are you feeling unfulfilled?
If you can sit above all the hard work and claim it for your own You'll be a man ager, my son. Profuse apologies to RK Really, really terribly sorry.
Had a Chianti accident on the the white wool carpet last night It's OK It's fine now We sprinkled on a little salt used some cleaner and the Chianti's OK
You would be forgiven for hating this. Trimmed and (maybe) improved reading. Maybe you'll hate it less.
Duty and obligation. It's what keeps me where I am. I've got to live a little first. Before it kills me. And it will. I remember the first time I hit London's Underground. King's Cross.
Can you imagine that? To wake and not have missed a single word? I need a dream stenographer. Dream Secretary.
What did you die for, Jack? I ask as I sit by your grave a long way from home and take in the sun and the cooling breeze of a French morning like you would have known
My contribution to tomorrow's Poetry Day. Acknowledgements as appropriate to the original author. Posting early in case flu takes me before 4 Oct.
What did you die for, Jack? I ask as I sit myself at your grave-side to rest my aches and pains Liberated from meter (almost) - I may have finished tweaking, for now!
Massacre of workers' rights: Resistance is vulgar TV is nice The bullet always has someone else's name on it So shall they fall
I couldn't sleep tonight for the terrific giraffe coming in through the window upsetting the acacia in its pot and disturbing the elephants huddled like statues in the dark
I hadn’t seen David for a while. Years, in fact. I was surprised when he asked me if I wanted to go for a spin. Well, maybe not surprised so much as delighted.
Living in a doorway has its own attractions Sovereign of myself and despised by everything around me in equal measure
Management is a game to keep us entertained and occupied between launching into catastrophic wars And lacking suitably qualified people is applied in a Fordist broken-down-to-nuts-and-bolts
I trod cautiously along one side of the mound, made my usual apologies and poured water from the can over the marble stone. The rain and wind always left a dull film.
I listen as your simple playing speaks to me of decades past It fills my heart and sings its song across the night It haunts me Makes the darkness dance around my bed
I thought I saw a Hoover Junior go by Heavy, metallic in the corner of my eye
I arrived into the office full of the usual start of week melancholy and immediately detected a far deeper gloom already present.
They wander about like dogs in the park snapping, snarling and sniffing under each other's tails interested only in the next meal or copulation
Lamentable lament. God's way of telling you it's time to take a shower and make dinner.
There is still something in you, about 20 per cent, that stares victory in the face and walks away; that will not recognise itself.